Powerless
by Reckless 0ne
Summary: Whatever you heard about 'Happy Endings' is a myth. Stripped of his demigod abilities by the betrayal of a friend, Percy Jackson is now living on the streets of Miami, far away from both camps. He's been broken, banished and betrayed, forced into into a brutal gang by the mysterious Fate. But that's okay, the new Powerless Percy is in control now. And. He. Couldn't. Care. Less. AU
1. Give Up

**(A/N)**

 **Hello people of Fanfiction, I am Reckless_one, here to bring you a Percy Jackson Avengers crossover. Most likely updates will be slow, considering I have about seven works going on right now - but never fear, I don't give up on my stories.**

 **Part I: Aberration**

 **Chapter I: Give Up**

 **Perseus (Percy) Rydall Jackson**

 **Sex:** Male

 **Age:** 18

 **Birthday:** August 18, 1993

 **Deceased:** August 24, 2012

 **Immediate Family:** Sally Cristine Jackson Uglanio Blofis (1972-2011), -UNKNOWN FATHER-, Gabe Wornmal Uglanio (Step-father (1764-Pronounced Dead in 2006), and Paul Alexander Blofis (Second Step-Father (1769-2011)

 **Height:** 5'10

 **Weight:** 154lbs

 **Eye Color:** Green

 **Hair Color:** Black

 **Dominant Ethnicity:** Greek

 **Secondary Ethnicity** : Caucasian

 **Education:** N/A

 **S.H.I.E.L.D's Most Wanted List:** Previously Ranked #23 (2005-2009)

 **Security:** Secret LANDLOCKS - 19

 **Heath Issues:**  
• ADHD - High  
• Dyslexia - High  
• PSTD - High  
• MDD - Moderate  
• ADD - Low  
• Allergic to Dogs - Low

 **News, Trials, Accusations**   
• **Perseus Rydall Jackson has been accused by, deceased, Gabe Ugalio, for murdering his mother, associating with national terrorist, kidnap of two teenagers. — CLEARED —**  
 **• Charged with the destruction of national monuments such as the St. Lewis Arch, blowing up a school bus at the National Museum of Modern Technology, and throwing explosives into Mt. St. Helens, to urge on it's eruption. — STILL CHARGED WITH —**  
 **• MIA Percy Jackson has not been seen in 7 months, suspicion he is collaborating with terrorist. — STILL CHARGED WITH —**  
 **• Murdering seven kids in Greece, along with bombing two summer camps on Long Island NY, and in California. — STILL CHARGED WITH —**

 **Death Facts**  
 **Pronounced dead on March 26, 2012, when found outside of Fortona's Labratory with a temperature of 93 degrees Fahrenheit with an extremely severe case of hypothermia. He was pronounced dead on the site, when his heart stopped beating. The emergency paramedics did not name the connection between Perseus Jackson and the person in front of them, so in the first opportunity, he was snatched away by some grudge holding terrorist and possible gangs members.**  
 **His body is still missing, but it is suspected that Rust or Vulg (The more prominent gangs around Fortona's Laboratory) are still in possession of Perseus Jackson's dead body.**

Clint fingers the files, and scans them, memorizing the more important facts. He looks around for Natasha out of habit, but unfortunately Fury gave Steve and himself the job of tracking the mysterious hooded man who does the dirty work of Sparta (An terrorist organization on National Alert). Who is rumored to have killed seventeen men in Los Angeles. Natasha can have no part in the investigation yet; not until Fury has a definite lead.

Clint questions Fury's sanity, having both highly trained soldiers look through dead people's files. In Clint's quite humble opinion, dead people don't work for highly trained groups devoted to causing public mayhem.

But then again, that could just be Clint.

He doubts that.

Clint stares bewilderingly at Perseus Jackson's file, while the name sounds familiar, he wonders how a twelve year old boy could have been charged of murder. (No less blowing up the St. Lewis Arch)

The cereal Clint was eating (that included exactly 250 pieces of Cheerios) is mush now, and the spoon in his hand has dropped so far it touches the table. As he reads father into the mysterious Perseus Jackson's file, his eyes bulge wider.

The guy seems like a real jerk, from all the newspaper clippings and news broadcasts he's seen.

Clint starts suddenly when the door to the kitchen burst open, Steve holding onto the door knob.

Clint glares at Steve, (who rather annoyingly interrupted the Cheerio counting Avenger) and his first finger twitches, a small tell of annoyance.

The file is lying forgotten on the table, and Steve mutters out an apology, something sounding suspiciously like, "Sorry, I forgot my own strength."

Clint grunts.

He takes in Steve's devilish appearance, his eyes are baggy and red, twenty or so files are tucked in the crook of his arm. "I thought we could eliminate suspects together, we'd be done quicker."

Clint notices he seems to be grunting often lately.

Clint grunts.

And then adds an, "Okay." From a bag slung around his chair, he dumps the contents on the table, fifty or so files coming out in an un-orderly fashion.

Clint enjoys watching Steve's eyes widen.

"Well, let's get to work!" Clint says with the look of a maniac in his eyes, as his smirk widens venomously.

"So we shall." Steve looks at him, a wry grin concealing more that showing.

Clint grabs the next file in front of him and reads:

 **Simon Reece Comber**  
 **Sex: Male**  
 **...**

* * *

Clint groans, they have eliminated the original 167 (Yes, Clint counted) down to the top 54 suspicions.

It would have been less, but Clint had to be the bad guy (Ole' Cap was a bit too nice and lenient) and tell Steve that mass murderers most definitely didn't die of pancreatic cancer, that most likely they were faked.

Perseus Jackson's name came up multiple times, and even though Steve pointed out that it was practically impossible for a person under twenty years of age to reach 93 degrees Fahrenheit to survive (because the heart would stop pumping blood), he stubbornly refused to agree.

Clint wanted to ask how Steve himself survived an iceberg where the temperature was no doubt extremely colder, but refrained against. Steve probably wouldn't find that funny, while Clint could help but find the irony hilarious.

Completely hilarious.

Every time the file of Perseus Jackson came up, Clint had a weird feeling in his stomach and quickly shoved the file back into the possible suspects.

He wasn't ready to let that file go, just yet. 

* * *

Clint inspects the arrow.

Real feathers, most likely chicken (possibly goose), the cock feather is painted a dark green and the hens black. The shaft is silver blue birch, and three white rings encircle the end of the shaft.

The most noticeable thing about the arrow is the finger prints. Clint DNA scans them, and puts them in the data base to find a match. The finger print does not exist.

Clint stares at the words — NO MATCH DETECTED —, with obvious incredulous.

He re-scans them, same results.

This person who shot the explosive arrow (faint gun powder on the hollow tip) doesn't exist.

He grabs the second arrow, this one snapped in half with a bloody tip from when Clint had to cut it from a soldier's shoulder. He scans the finger prints - nothing.

From the position of the carefully shot arrow into soldier's arm, Clint knows the archer is a master.

Banging the arrow onto the table as hard as he can (in both frustration and anger) he dents the titanium table. With a cautious prod, he studies the metal he formerly thought was aluminum. He stares at it in awe, and runs it through the scanner. No matches, surprisingly, but he learns that the closest thing to the molecular structure is the otherworldly metal Thor's hammer is made of.

Clint deduces that magic is involved, somehow.

Getting a diamond chisel, he files down the wicked sharp tip ever so slowly. After a considerable amount of time, his file reaches the lower part of the arrow, and as he reaches the hollow part Clint notices a slight dampness in the inside.

He brings his finger to his nose, and takes a deep whiff.

Musky, humid, and sharp lemon...

Clint puts down the arrow, no, drops it. His vision rapidly becomes blurry, and he sees two right hands, instead of one. His head starts pounding, and his heartbeat rapidly increases, sweat trickles down the back of Clint's neck.

Then his nerves seize up, his calf starts shrieking in pain while his arm wildly shakes.

He tries to notify Steve, Tony, anybody, but his mouth feels garbled and dry like cotton.

"Help..." Comes out as a whisper, but he knows no one can hear him. Black dots flicker at the edge of Clint's vision, then his entire left eyes goes black.

 _Blink..._

Sleep...

 _Blink..._

Help...

 _Blink..._

And then _nothing..._


	2. What's the Point?

**Thank you for your reviews! You guys are awesome!  
**

 **Part I: Abberation**

 **Chapter II: What's The Point?**

 _White..._

 _White everything..._

 _White walls, white bed sheets..._

 _White lights, white paper... It flutters... off a white clipboard._

 _Suddenly the walls get smaller, suddenly the white handcuffs get tighter..._

 _Suddenly breathing is hard, he wonders if his skin is as white as a sheet from the apparent lack of oxygen._

 _He's never been claustrophobic, but all that thinking about that does is bring an image of Santa Claus, and his extremely white beard._

 _Cause yah know,_ Claus _-trophobic?_

 _Don't get it?_

 _Forget it._

 _The white light digs into his eyes, trying to blind him. It's almost like when he was in the Arctic, everything so snowy and white, because the sun. He thinks about Polar Bears, their white fur._

 _In his delusional state, he imagines Santa eating a polar bear, feasting on it's white blood cells, and wearing it's teeth as a crown and pelt as pants._

 _Maybe this is evidence of his messed up imaginative system._

 _Saying imagination is too hard._

 _He gasps his last breath of air, as he falls beneath the white ocean and the white ice traps him under._

 _The white bubbles he somehow manage to get minuscule amounts of oxygen from, isn't enough._

 _He slowly sinks, (sinking indicates more mass, and more mass indicates more muscles) and fades into a white, peaceful oblivion._

 _Because what's the point? Life is indeed pointless._

* * *

A low, annoying sound comes from the forward general direction. Without opening his eyes, Clint deduces it's either a door with rusty hinges, or his grandma trying to do a backflip.

Choosing the more logical of the two, without opening his eyes he grunts, "Grandma, you're going to dislocate your hip."

And then adds in second thought, "Again." Just to get his point across. As soon as he says 'again' a sharp pain fills his lungs, as if he'd been inhaling chalk or smoke.

Clint coughs several times, but it still feels like dry cotton is lodged in his throat. He tries and swallows, but another bout of coughing stops him.

A low chuckle that most definitely does not belong to his grandma resounds. With a sheepish look he cracks open an eye, to see only the biggest, baddest, and all around b-avenger Bruce Banner.

He's wearing a white lab coat.

Figures.

That's when Clint desires to study the room, or infirmary, that he is so elegantly places in while recuperating from grievous harms.

His head hurts from trying to think works that sophisticated.

The walls of the infirmary are an off white, and he faces a 12x12 photograph of a polar bear eating a seal. He wonders why such a gruesome photo is in an infirmary... Maybe it's supposed to take the patient's mind off of their pain, and feel bad for the seal getting gnawed on.

Whatever it is, it strangely brings images of Santa Claus to the forefront of Clint's extremely innocent mind.

Clint looks up at the ceiling where a white light (the kind of light that camera filming is done best in (Clint's secret hobby is photography)) blares at him.

Bruce takes out a stethoscope, and puts it on Clint's shoulder. He writes it down on the white sheet of paper on the white clipboard. "Well, well, soldier..." He starts, "Your heartbeat is back to normal, temperature 98.7, blood pressure 124/72."

Clint starts feeling uncomfortable.

Bruce looks at him with an all knowing gaze, "No trace of poison, concussion, or heart attack."

Here it is... Here it comes...

He feels cornered - feral. His breath seems short, and his eyes are dilated slits. He feels his lungs rattle, but tries pushing that away angrily.

"So soldier, mind explaining what happened? You gave all of us a big shock."

"Uhh..." Is Clint's brilliant, spiffing response. He thinks, he thinks really hard, but the seconds before his passing out are blurry and foggy, and Clint can't remember what he did. He feels angry all of the sudden, like the blame is being placed on himself.

"I don't know." He shrugs apologetically, but nonchalantly in utter disorganization. He tries to bite back at Bruce, snarl - anything.

"Come on Clint, no body's going to believe that. What actually happened?" Bruce looks at him in disbelief.

"I swear I can't remember. Maybe my memory was erased or something." Clint fires back. This time speaking hurts more than it should, he barely is able to ignore it.

"Okay, okay," Bruce waves his hand in dismissal, "I'm scanning your brain, hold still."

Clint waits, and waits. Reluctantly he wonders what's happening to him. Why... is he... so angry...? His thoughts come in short burst, and new found desperation clouds his mind.

"No brain tampering, no memory loss, no nothing. You should be fine... And remember."

"Don't believe me then!" He all but accuses, "I just passed out with out reason! I know that sounds stupid, but you think I'm hiding who or what knocked me out?"

"You're being illogical." Bruce says, trying to calm him down. "I think something undetected is still wrong with your brain. You're having massive amounts of aggression in a calm environment. Hold still for a moment."

Clint starts laughing hysterically, he swats Bruce's out stretched hand away, "I'm being illogical! I'm being illogical!"

Clint reaches towards his IV to yank it out and attack Bruce, but a millisecond before a well muscled hand stops him.

He looks up to see Steve glaring pitifully down at him, "I got him Banner, sedate him before anything else bad happens."

 _Needles... Needles..._

Bruce approaches him with a long shot, which no doubt something in it almost as strong as the liquid substance that put him in this situation in the first place...

He fights and thrashes, tries to keep his eyes that betray him and close...

Huh... He realizes. I've been knocked out twice in two days.

And he angrily falls unconscious, knowing he's being illogical, yet with particular animosity still flowing in his veins.

 _Whoever you are..._

 _I will get you..._

 _I WILL GET YOU...!_

* * *

Green eyes flash in the absolute darkness, a maniac, crooked smile adorns the face, and hands that are capable of killing tap lightly on the oak desk.

"You called, sir?" He spits out with all the disrespect he can muster. He's not afraid of his boss, he's not afraid of anyone.

"Yes, I did, subordinate." Is shot back. "You've got a new mission."

"What happened to my old one?" He asks, angry, knowing the answer.

"Meyers took it over... The Fate thought you had been... compromised."

"That kid couldn't take down a muscled mustached baby, no less Rust's frontman." He says with hate.

"I am not here to waste my time by telling you about Meyers. I am here to tell you about your new mission."

"Okay, tell me. But make it quick, I have a date at 1800."

"Ah, a ladies man, eh?" The mans eyebrow rises.

"You're not Canadian. Now tell me my assignment, before I throw you out of this building myself." He grins at the thought.

"Meyers is getting files on our number one enemy, you're breaking into one of our number two enemy's warehouses to get information."

"Typical. What's the enemy?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. I have your tickets already, and you're flying west tomorrow. You have the rest of the day to read the file, and then come up with a game plan. We don't know where the warehouse is, so anything else is by your own means."

"So basically you're just dropping me in the middle of an ocean and telling me to swim?"

Simple enough, right?

"Welcome to the life of a Agent, Agent."

"I hate water." He deadpans, angry. "And Shield? How creative. Isn't that the intelligence organization that sits around and does nothing other than boss around the Avengers?"

"The very same. Though they still have information on Dylan and Thompson."

He scoots his chair back, satisfied. "Of course I want Dylan out of prison, but Thompson? He can rot in a holding cell for all I care."

"It got you to join us, didn't it?" He whispers in a deadly calm voice.

He keeps his gaze stead on the 'sir.' "Yes it did. I just hope you also know, that as soon as you turn around with your back towards me, I'll be on you like a flash — my dagger buried into your heart."

"That day will never come," he waves offhandedly.

"Oh it will. And I'll take a special pleasure in killing you, sir. Slowly and painfully, just like my reputation."

 _Slowly and painfully..._

 _Slowly and painfully..._

 _I will kill..._

You...


	3. You

**Part I: Aberration**

 **Chapter III: You're**

I walk along the sidewalk, crowded cars honk behind me as they pass, convinced I'm suddenly going to jump out and commit suicide.

That thought has crossed my mind, unfortunately.

I guess I look the part, with devilishly long hair and a mad look in my eyes. My black jeans are ripped and my S.P.Q.R t-shirt has three long claw marks over the left side of my rib cage. My hole-y converse are laced up with white spattered red laces, and the black clothed cut-off gloves conceal the darts I was able to snatch from the underground factory.

I flex my hands apprehensively, feeling the loaded weapon that has interlocked with my flesh and merged with my cellular membrane. The whole process was pretty incredible, and after a few months, I could barely feel the difference in my hand weights.

The sack on my shoulder shifts uncomfortably, and the metal braces and cuffs press against my back, regardless of the thick woolen shirt they're wrapped in. I wryly grin at the thought of something accidentally pressing down on the detonator.

 _Bye bye, Percy. Bye bye, Los Angeles._

Unfortunately, that's not my mission, but destroying it would be good for my reputation.

Or bad, if you're the type of person who thinks exploding an entire city is villainous.

I remain on the sidewalk, like the good child my mother taught me to be — at least before she died. I look up at the sun, shielding my eyes as I quickly gauge the time of the day. With the position of the sun, I reckon I have about two hours before I need to head back.

Only two hours.

That's not enough time to complete my mission, but I'm used to working under pressure, and only the employer will be mad if I'm late, and I don't care two devil's of an inch about what he thinks.

I take the next left, and soon I leave the more populated part of the city. Taking the backroads, suddenly, I'm in front of a huge warehouse, 'danger' and 'toxic,' signs are posted all over the building, while caution tape surrounds the premises, connecting cones. Only one story high, the entire metal warehouse is covered in rust and dust. Spiderwebs lace around the outside, and there is obvious traces of blood around the building. The place looks like a stereotypical place that under ground labs usually hide — at least it matches the ones from the movies. I duck under the caution tape, reach the doors, an blow the lock off, an old model.

Stepping slightly inside, my eyes adjust inhumanly quickly, in fact, I can see on all but the darkest nights.

For a renowned lab, the place is surprisingly barren, with the dusty interior and bolted down metal chairs. I stay where I am right half a foot from the doorframe, waiting for a trap to be sprung. I hesitate, knowing that this entire journey has been entirely too easy.

A soon as I take my first step inside the actual part of the building, something at the back of my neck prickles, like my very own spider-sense.

I whip around to my right and duck, darts aimed at my head and vital places literally trace the upper part of my body spaced four centimeters from each other. I'd have approximately fifty darts buried into my skin, not to count the axe now barreling at my head.

Timing it right, using the internal timer in my mind, I step forward and fluidly grab the axe before it can decapitate me. My hand painfully absorbs the shock as the handle slaps against my palm, my fingers immediately wrapping around it. Dropping the axe. I stare at the painfully red axe handle imprint, in awe of the 460 km/h axe lugging contraption.

For such an important lab, the security lacks extreme technological advances, but the axe lugger seems very creative, and only strengthens my suspicions about this place.

Who boobytraps a dusty building?

Simon Comber? Doubt it.

I head towards the metal stairs, my feet kicking up the dust on the ground. After purposefully tripping seven traps, and deactivating fourteen others, I reach the metal staircase.  
With my left hand braces by my right, I slowly start down the stairs with my better aimed hand forward. I silently beg the metal objects in my pack not to clank around.

Then my heel clanks noisily against the stair. I sigh, Seaweed Brain, echoes in my head. I guess I'm still just an extremely clumsy boy who can kill a person in .07 seconds flat.

Yes, unfortunately I'm only .07, Bruce Myers got a .05 in training last season. The stupid kid brags about it every time I see him. My scoring was botched because I didn't fulfill the secondary requirements, but they wouldn't let me retest.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, my foot hovers over the last descent, and by breath feels slightly heavy. I notice the air and humidity here are different, In fact, I could have sworn I saw on my phone the humidity was supposed to be 30%, but it feels muggier.

Maybe once upon a time, the water would have helped me, maybe even rejuvenated me, but not now. Now every step on my left leg (the one poisoned with a White Dianthrium flower) burns like fire overtime I step on it. Ignoring it's not easy, but with heavy painkillers and sedatives I've managed it.

I take the last step, and come hard on the midnight floor with a thump and a dusty cloud.

I wait, knowing something is off, something not quite right...

A twitch of a sound comes from my right and I whirl without sound.

I take one more step...

"Freeze." An icy voice commands from the opposite direction, and I'll be darned if I haven't heard that voice before.

* * *

 _I adjust my tie and pull my sleeves straight. I check my watch, which reads 5:57, perfect._

 _I near a dark building, that is no doubt the most expensive restaurant in Miami. I open the door and step in, with one look from me the usher immediately is up and practically running to meet my every need._

 _I tend to have that affect on people._

 _He leads me to a secluded spot, in where I sit and order two waters._

 _Two and a half minutes later, punctual as ever, my date arrives, already instinctively knowing where I'll be._

 _Her thick brown hair comes down in layers, and bangs trap her huge, baby blue eyes. Her nose is straight and she has full red lips. She is the epitome of beautiful, but also incredibly fake in my opinion. She has a black pencil dress, four inch wedge high heels, and a purple purse that looks tacky._

 _"Astria." I smile, stand up to greet her and pull out her chair. "How can I praise your beauty? You," I bring her hand up and kiss it, "are indescribably, unconditionally, and incandescently stunning. More so than anyone else in this room."_

 _And just a tool, I think, but refrain from saying the obvious._

 _I doubt she would find it as funny as I do._

 _After ordering our food, steak for me and (ugh) salad for her, we eat in silence, she occasionally complementing the food (how can you complement plants?) an I complementing her (how stupid can she be?)._

 _As the night continues to retire, at exactly 7:03:87 a large man in a black hoodie who sat in the back corner passes behind me. I instinctively out my hand through the hole of my chair, and quickly close it when a capsule is put into it._

 _I hear the faint word, "Shield," before the man is gone with the wind._

 _All while telling Astria the moon can't compare to her beauty. (Which is debatable, considering I've meet both of them, and the latter is far more fake than the former)_

 _Then all to late it's time for me to leave, and once again I pull her up from her chair (her lack of upper body strength is disturbing) and kiss her good night on the mouth, which leaves me with the need of six toothpaste tubes and... You know what? I just need an entire new mouth... Yeah..._

 _"Bye..." I tell her, my teeth flashing in the night as I smile crookedly and slip my hand from around her waist slowly._

 _And then she's gone, and I'm silently thanking myself for remaining a bachelor. I could not deal with that every night._

 _I grab some random person's Kawasaki Ninja and hotwire it, take off, and reach my flat in twenty._

 _Turning on the security system and making sure nobody could spy on me, I bring out the capsules break it open, and stare at the tiny price of paper._

 _Written in black ink it says:_

Los Angeles, Northwest.

 _Maybe that doesn't mean anything to most people, but to me, I hone in exactly where it says, because no one knows this city better than I do._

* * *

 _"Shield..." The voice plays again in my mind, achingly harsh yet familiar._

 _"Freeze." The voice plays again in my mind, achingly harsh yet familiar._

And then my body takes control and is in motion before I can think. I'm in action, I'm not going down without a fight, again.


	4. Are

**Really IMPORTANT NOTE:**

 **Hey guys... I feel like an idiot. *Face palm.. I accidentally chose the wrong chapter to upload (THE REALLY ACTION PACKED GRAPHIC VIOLENCE CHAPTER) last upload, so the chapter you recently read is actually the fifth chapter. I have published this real chapter four in-between, where it is SUPPOSED to go.**

 **So this is the real chapter four, and the chapter I uploaded a few days ago is the _real_ chapter 5. So please, read this chapter, and then read the next chapter, it will make a lot more sense. **

**Part I: Abberation**

 **Real Chapter IV: Are**

 **One Day Prior**

 **Location: Stark Tower**

 **Time: 11:07:57**

 _Knock... Knock..._

Clint looks up, startled, and even more so when Fury walks through the door with a big black bag slung over his shoulder. He watches as Steve visibly tenses, and notices his own pale arms start shivering.

The cards he'd been using for go-fish sink to the table top, the two he was going to play looks up at him dejectedly. _Well? Get on with it!_

The cheerfulness in the air is gone with the Director, a big leach that both scares Clint and makes him grow restless.

Fury clears his throat, "I'm glad to see you're recovering, Clint."

"Thank you, Director," Clint curses himself when his voice cracks, really stupid voice? Now?

Yes, Clint had been released from the infirmary this morning. After his animosity had run it's course through and through, and he no longer felt like tearing off Banner's head, they deemed him fit to be released with the only possibility of Physical Therapy in after hours. The nurses had also given him some soothing medicine for his burning, rattling lungs, saying some sort of poison had infected them. How was still unknown, but going back to his room he had noticed a broken arrow. Feeling an immediate distaste for it, even though it was part of his research project, with thick rubber gloves he'd carefully thrown it away in the incarcerator, hoping flippantly that the metal burned.

He'd slowly began to feel like himself again. His strength returned and the pain in his calf drained away.

Clint snaps to attention when Director speaks again, hoping his newfound daydreaming tendencies will burn away quickly.

"Then to business, gentlemen." Fury proposes, sits down in the third chair of Clint's small table, and bringing out a laptop; places in a thumb drive into the USB port. He turns it on, no doubt enters an incredibly difficult password (I_am_FURYOUS.007) and turns to show it to the two Avengers.

In the incredibly complex coding, which Clint can't even begin to decipher (extremely long strands of a mix of HEX, Binary, and ASCII mixed with a health dose of gibberish) he spots several highlighted strands.

"Our best technicians attempted to decode this, but they couldn't figure anything else out besides five names grouped together at one sector here," Fury points on the screen to the highlighted part (extra special gibberish), "Which say..." and he gestures towards his pen pad after he furiously (get it?) scribbles on to it.

Written on it in tight backhand slant is:

 _Thompson,_

 _Comber,_

 _Dylan,_

 _Meyers,_

And an unknown tabooed name that sends Clint's blood practically to a freezing boil:

 _Jackson._

Fury studies the faces of both soldiers, looking for recognition, and no doubt picks up on Clint's hesitation. He then reaches back in to his bag and draws out five files. He flicks through the first one, before setting it down.

"These are the five men we have narrowed down from the last names in the coded message." Fury says, "These names are also coincidentally a part of your of the original one hundred sixty-seven."

Clint flips opens random file, Comber's,

 **Murdered fourteen men in New York throughout his time of being a Gang leader of Vulg. Caught on December 24 and sentenced to Death Row...**

He quickly flips shut the file before he's permanently scarred for life.

"What do you want us to do?" Clint finds his voice, triumphant when it doesn't crack this time.

"I believe it's time to tell all of the Avengers of your 'undercover' mission. We're going to need all of them to take down whatever man we're looking for." Fury pins both of them with his gaze.

Clint looks at Steve, who smirks slightly, "Assemble the Avengers."

* * *

The Avengers sit at a circular table, the kind of table that projects equality and fairness. Fury had already explained everything about the two men's 'undercover' mission, and while no one complains, distrust is evident in the eyes. Clint feels dreadful when he realizes that while Natasha isn't angry that he didn't tell her about his 'undercover' mission, she also isn't happy.

A cough startles him, and Clint looks up at Fury, who is decorating a presentation board. His cough isn't a I-need-to-cough-because-my-throat-is-bugging-me, it's a I-am-coughing-to-get-you-alls-attention. It works, and in milliseconds all of the seated Avengers look up.

Clint discretely studies the board, which detailedly describes each of the five men, and possible sightings at various points around the world.

Then Fury starts speaking rapidly, like a machine gun, "Earlier this morning I got an anonymous tip that the man we're looking for, whoever that may be, is going to be at Staz in Miami tonight."

Tony whistles, "Dang, that's the most expensive restaurant in Florida!" He then counts on his fingers, "I've been there... twice."

Fury turns his one eye of destruction and doom onto Tony, who visibly shakes in what Clint only describes as absolute fear.

Steve speaks up, "How do we know the tip was valid? Or that one of these men is for sure the man is Sparta's Assassin?"

Fury turns his eye on Steve, "To answer your first question; we don't, but that's the best bet we have so far. Secondly, this is a direct transmission from Sparta about a year and a half ago about five qualifying but possible recruits that already had in depth police records that they wanted to induct into the position of assassin."

"So, assuming that it was one of these men, we have our lead." He finishes, with one deft nod.

"But what about —" Steve starts again, but is quickly cut off by Fury when he jams his palms onto the table, roughly shaking it.

"It isn't your job to know all the facts, it's mine. Just bash somebody's head in, that's all you're being paid for anyway." Fury quickly rants, agitation webbed across his face.

"I don't get paid," murmurs Steve, but Clint is the only one who catches it.

"The oldest man on here is," Tony looks at the files quickly, "thirty-eight, the youngest nineteen. Why does this require all of the Avengers? I'm pretty sure that even Clint could take out all five of them."

Clint ignores the obvious jibe at his skills, but does pin Tony with his most threatening glare. Tony cockily grins back at him, and Clint imagines bashing in his face with a hammer...

Obviously annoyed, especially because Tony completely disregards what Fury says, Fury says, "If this person can trick the entire government and agency's, then he's not a force to take on alone."

"Besides, it's not like we're taking all of them on, four of these men are dead." Fury says, "Only one is alive now, they all died at various points of last year."

This time Clint has a question, "How do we know that all of them haven't escaped death?"

"Do you want all five to be alive?" Fury shoots back, "No? Then shut up."

Clint feels stupid like a chastised child, which isn't exactly a rare experience being around expert technicians, doctors, and all around smart people. He's not exactly dumb, if his ACT score of 26 is anything to go on.

But then again his IQ is only 101... and his College GPA was horrendous. Hehe... not that he actually _finished_ college.

Suddenly Clint feels self conscious when he realized all eyes are on him, and instantly knows from the amount of teachers and students that have done the exact same thing, that he's been asked a question.

"W-what?" He asks self consciously.

"Will you lead this InOp mission?" Fury repeats, and despite the fact Clint feels like hiding under a rock right now, he steels his nerves and slowly nods.

Something changes in Clint today, the archer who stands back, lets others leads, is at the top pecking order. He feels fearless, powerful.

Tony pins him with a glare, but the small smile Natasha sends him totally makes up for it. He knows she's proud of him, and that there are no hard feelings.

That's when he feels a slight rattling in lungs, and woozy, his head starts thumping terribly. He starts choking on air, not being able to breathe, but no one notices — not one.

Jarvis suddenly speaks, "Clint's breathing pattern has seemed to be disrupted, please check for further diagnostics."

Steve whips around, and with calculating eyes decides to thump Clint hard on the back. The nothingness lodged in his throat evaporates, but all the Avengers continue to stare at him.

Fury in particular, "Soldier, I can't let you go on this mission. Not in this state."

Clint looks at the ground dejectedly, once again degraded.

"Yes sir."

* * *

 **One Day Prior**

 **Location: Miami, Florida**

 **Time: 04:43:06**

My Russian Blue cat named Lily stares up at me from her perch on my book shelf. Her luminous green eyes seem to pull apart all my secrets, as only a feline can do.

"Hi," I manage, my voice lodged with what I think feels like dry cotton.

She meows, which practically makes my heart swell twice it's size — my cat is the only happiness I can afford at this point.

"Im being sent on a new mission... But I already knew about it. Boss thinks his encryptions are so hard to crack, but really, the FBI's firewall is more complex than him, the _FBI_. _Meyers_ could hack them with both hands tied behind his back." I shake my head, lost in a crazy, insane state. "Anyway, I found out about it three weeks ago, and already mapped out my choice of action. I made an arrangement with a black market man who says he knows where the warehouse is, but can only pass me the info through a highly trained mercenary."

My cat smiles in a weird, gruesome way that lengthens her canines. She cocks her head, asking a silent question, _Kill Plan_?

"Yeah, I got that covered, Lily. Boss won't know what hit him, and I never break my promises."

I have to repress my smile, I'll strip him limb from limb, gouge his eyes after he sees his hideousness.

I'll kill him, because that's what I'm made for — killing.

A laugh burst from my mouth, a crazy wild sound that stems only from the euphoria of completely demolishing anyone I feel like bestowing the horror upon.

* * *

 **Anyone who knows binary, what does this say?**

 **01000010 01101111 01100010 00100000 01110011 01100001 01111001 01110011 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01101100 01101111**

 **— Jay**


	5. Going

_**(A/N)**_ **So lets** **talk about how much I'm an idiot, for those people who have not already read the chapter 4 rant. I posted this chapter as chapter four, but this chapter is actually chapter five, so please, go back and read the newly introduced chapter four that I have updated and fixed my mistake thus.**

 **It will make a lot more sense...**

 **1 ISSUE: And also, I made a mistake on ages in Percy's file, oops.**

 **2 ISSUE: Dominant and Secondary Ethnicity... This fanfic is in the future, not by like, fifty years, but a year or two or three... And, Shield's files aren't public files, or files that we use today. And yes, I made a mistake, they would not be able to tell Percy Jackson's dominant ethnicity because his father is unknown, so yeah...**

 _ **You,**_

 _ **yes you,**_

 _ **You're almost amazing as Percy Jackson,**_  
 _ **Yes**_ **you :)**

* * *

 **Part I: Aberration**

 **Chapter V: Going**

 _"Freeze." The voice plays again in my mind, achingly harsh yet familiar._

 _And then my body takes control and is in motion before I can think. I'm in action, I'm not going down without a fight, again._

They stay positioned where the are, which leads me to assume they're going to hang back and fire guns at me, instead of melee or hand-to-hand combat. By the leading guy's body position, I can tell that there are four people on his left, and five on his right. They're about twenty feet away.

I feel so special, they think they need ten people to knock me out.

But they're wrong, they need at least forty. Normal humans are too easy to kill.

Immediately bolting to the left, and an arrow misses me by a few feet. I can tell the archer's not very good, a master is able to pinpoint where I am _going_ to be.

I start counting in my head, timing.

 _1... 2... 3..._

The next arrow horridly shot arrow I manage to catch as it whizzes by to my left, narrowly missing my arm. I flip it mid-air purposefully graze the inside of my wrist, coating the tip in my toxic blood that's not unlike the more powerful Dianthrium Oil, even a small graze can leave a fully grown man stunned for fourteen hours. I hurl it back in the general direction of the bowman.

There are no more arrows shot. I almost burst into hysterical tears, we were having so much fun!

Energy courses through me as I surge, suddenly I feel powerful enough to take on forty- _one_ men.

I bring my left hand up and will it to fire, feeling the five Crystalline Silver bullets shoot out from my hand, electrically charged with lightning from my previous energy surge. Two of them hit the standardly dressed man with three golden stars on his uniform closest to me, and three whiz beside him.

The man immediately collapses from the Red Dianthrium poison that all my darts are dipped in, he starts convulsing as the hallucinations take his mind and worm into his fears. The Lightning only adds to the affect as he practically glows electric blue and sparks actually fly from him onto other bystanders. Stinging pricks that resemble a cattle brand.

Panic is immediate. Chaos rules.

I watch as the leader dude tries taking control, he pulls four guys aside and honing in on his and my audio I hear him tell them to secure the premises and distract any police that comes for the disturbances. I smile wryly, divide and conquer, as they say.

Then four bullets are coming at me and, on the balls of my feet, I somersault to the side as I literally duck under one of the bullets. I sprint into a barely lighted corridor (I estimate the room 10x27) , three of them follow me and two of them go another way, no doubt to cut me off at the end.

 _30 seconds._

I take a quick peak at the three behind me, one of them wears all black and runs in a perfect, long strides, her eyes flashing dangerously in the dark behind me. The next is male, he wears a standard uniform with the strange three star emblem and has a gun tucked into the crook of his arm.

The last man almost makes me stop in guffaws, he wears some sort of America getup, but to compensate he has a shield that looks both shiny and deadly.

Speaking of shields, the same one is now barreling at my face.

I duck successfully, and shoot my right hand, first-finger dart, which is more like a shredder than a dart, back behind me where one catches the standard soldier in the forehead. He falls behind as blood spatters from the puncture like crimson diamonds.

 _49 seconds._

The shield in front of me rebounds on the corner of the wall, and now hurls right back at me in a way I think the Mr. Patriotic planned it like this.

At the same time the shield is only inches away from my face, the woman in black shoots me with a pistol that, while I doge the shield, the bullet barely clips me, skinning my shoulder. I can already feel my shirt soaking with blood.

I jerk my hand onto my shoulder, trying to staunch the blood flow. My mind runs wild with many possibilities and strategies for taking down the two stragglers behind, and deducing the best option would be hand-to-hand combat as of right now, I suddenly stop running and sweep my leg under both of them. I get blessed and catch both of them with my timed sweep because they have little to no time at all to stop. The woman does back handsprings off the force, though.

In the .6 seconds Mr. Patriot is on the floor, I manage to kick him on the head, which leaves him stunned for a few moments, before I have to face woman-in-black.

Then I charge the black suited woman.

I can tell she's slightly unperturbed and that's why she hesitates in shooting, by body language, as if she'd never believe I'd seemingly commit suicide like this. She's dead wrong.

I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I roughly grab her around the waist and tackled her to the ground, her below me. Elongating two darts, so as I probably resemble Wolverine, I punch her in the face.

Well, almost. She blocks at last second, and with my other hand I force her hand down to her side.

Before I draw back again, she has her arms around _me_ (somehow she freed her hands) and crashes her forehead into my nose, which immediately starts pouring blood. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be surprised if she broke my nose.

I immediately jerk back my entire body, and hurriedly get onto my feet while the woman in front of me back-walkovers. Her fighting stance mirrors my own, right leg forward, bent slightly, and left back is supporting, while both heels make a forty-five degree angle.

I strike first, a jump front kick that I aim at her head with. She grabs my foot and pushes down with, while I manage to catch her in the head with my Non-Wolverinized had. She immediately spin kicks and I just manage to duck, before her fist start flying.

High block, punch at her shoulder, low block, catcher her hand and twist it. Put pressure on her shoulder as her arm twists behind her, listen to her let out a whimper.

Feel totally disoriented when suddenly I'm on the floor with her on top of _me._ Catcher her first two blows, manage to grab her shoulders and fling her entire body behind me.

I hear her body smack the ground unpleasantly, and once again we lock in our deadly dance. This time she punches I grab her wrist, and with two fingers dig into the pressure point between the two bones o her wrist. With the rest of my body I go under her arm and reverse slam her into the ground — again.

She lands on her feet in some counter landing and my blood turns to ice. She's good, _really good._

I'm not panicking, but I'm wondering who these people are. _Are they gang members? Enemies of Rust who have the means to capture me and tun me into a hostage to gain leverage? Why do they want me?_

I go on the offensive and next block she makes punch at her forearm pressure point, the one that really hurts. I release two bullets from my right hand as my roundhouse kick catches her in the jaw, which one implants in her thigh.

And it just so happens to be a _non_ poisoned one.

 _1 minute and 12 seconds._

Well, she does falls the ground a my dart starts tearing in her flesh, and I'm able to take half a second to catch my breath.

Suddenly I realize I haven't looked at Mr. Patriotic in a while. I take a peak behind me and see him still on the floor, but with a quick jab his shield is once again spinning at me with deadly accuracy.

I fall forward as it clips me in the side of my head, while I immediately feel for the damage. Blood now is pouring down the side of my head, and I can't do anything about it.

At least my nose has stopped bleeding.

Haha. That's not even my biggest problem, my shoulder is still pouring buckets.

Unfortunately from the force of the shield I fall exactly on top of the woman.

Suddenly, something inside of me cracks, and I'm no longer just trying to stun then or knock them out. They started this! Not me.

Now, I'm not afraid to kill them.

No. I never start things — but I always finish them.

On top of the woman, I immediately jab twice at her throat which restricts her air supply. As Mr. America' shield comes spinning back from where it rebounded on the wall, I reach out and like what I did with the axe, grab it. I get a feel of its weight, before back spinning it back at him.

He ducks, no surprise, and I shift my attention back to the woman who opens her eyes as soon as I turn to her. I grin crookedly at her, and then jump gracefully back as Mr. Patriotic throws his shield again, which knocks the woman cold out.

Before I can get back to her, I grab the shield that hit her in the head, that no doubt gave her a concussion, and put it on my back, like I saw American Flag do.

Then I confront the beast.

I grudgingly get fighting position, while Mr. America does as well. Then I hear foot prints behind him and know the people who took the other channel have caught up to us.

Three vs. One. Easy peasy, chicken kabobs. That might not be it, but eh... Too bad.

I study the two new guys for .03 of second. Well... not guys...

 _1 minute 37 seconds._

An red robot automatronic dude I name Ferrari and a muscled green troll that has destroyed most of the hallway, I name Pickle. (Though, his angry look is enough to make me want to pee my pants.)

My newly induced creativity must be blamed for the amazing names I have created.

I don't understand... The two men that started out like perfectly normal soldiers have suddenly transformed... into this? A robot and a green goblin? Are they male empousa? What? I'm so confused right now, but I don't have time to dwell on it.

Ferrari does something I don't expect, he lifts his hand and a blue laser of energy barrels towards me at the speed of light out of his weird hand light. Now, I can dodge a great number of thing, but I can't move the speed of light.

His energy slams into me, and a raw scream escapes from my mouth, torn in agony that brings bile and blood up from my throat. I get thrown backwards, ad I can feel my stomach being burnt with the heat of a thousand stars, the layers of skin being charred black into more pain than I've felt in a long time — like twisting agony of being shredded slowly.

 _AHHHHHHH!_

My scream resounds on the walls, and momentarily Ferrari stops when Mr. American Flag suddenly tackles him.

"Don't you dare hurt a kid like that, _Iron Man_! Not _ever_!"He says in my defense, to my surprise. He didn't have any problems with taking my head off with a shield, now did he?

But, none the less I'm grateful, and a soft groan escapes my lips. I shakily get to my feet, biting my lip bloody trying to ignore the pain. I stagger, leaning on the wall with both arms wrapped around my stomach. I retch, but nothing but blood comes out of my swollen mouth.

Limping slowly, while Mr. Murica restrains Ferrari and Pickle dejectedly looks at me with no passion for fighting, I find a good place that has a pipe twelve feet off the ground. I grimace and strain my fingers upwards, gathering my energy and leap as high as I can.

 _2 minutes and 1 second._

This is when all three Gang members turn back to look at me.

And I'm hanging from my pipe upside down, frantically pulling things from my pack. I set out two electromagnetic poles, grab a battery, hook wires into wires before hooking up a detonator to my contraption. All in less than a second.

"Who are you?" I ask, angrily, the button clutched tightly in my hand. "What do you want from me?"

Ferrari speaks, "I don't know who you are, kid, but our orders were to capture anyone here."

"But I'm just a kid." I tell him, cocking my head in a mockingly innocent tone. The way a six year old would taunt their bigger sibling.

"You took out Widow," Mr. Murica says, glancing at her collapsed body, "I wouldn't say that's nothing."

I'm confused for a moment, _Widow_ , did her husband die?

This time I'm ready when Ferrari lifts his hand and blows me with energy from his hand, I instinctively reach behind me, grasp Mr. Flag's shield and bring it up to cover my entire body. The energy splits to either side of me and I shudder at the raw power.

When Ferrari realizes it's pointless, he abates and I immediately throw the shield and release all five poisoned darts of my left hand.

The four of five poison darts catch him, majorly tearing chunks of metal from his armored arm, and the one shot only milliseconds later rips a long putrid lash in his arm. The poison takes immediate effect Ferrari clutches his torn arm, while screams resound from his mouth. I almost feel sorry for him, but hey, they attacked _me._

Pickle lets out a roar that's so loud I can literally feel the vibrations, but before he can do any melee damage I jam my thumb onto the detonator. I throw it so it connects with the silicon bar ten yards away from me and it's octopus like arms wrap round and round around it.

The effect is immediate, Ferrari is pulled upwards by the Electromagnetic Pulse. I let out a laugh, "Iron man, huh? What a stupid name, especially when you're suit isn't even made of iron. It's a nickel and titanium alloy, with traces of carbon-carbon. And guess what?" I stick my tongue out at him, "Two of the three are magnetic! What a coinky-dink." I smile wryly, and quickly grab another detonator that I hook to the bar above me, jamming my finger into it. "And guess what else? Both the silicon bar and nitinol are extremely conductive metals!"

This time I flat out laugh when electric pulses rack Ferrari's body.

 _Cheese n' wieners._

 _Cheese n' wieners._

 _Cheese n' wieners._

 _2 minutes and 47 seconds._

While both Pickle and Murica watch in horror, and Ferrari get's zapped within an inch of his life, (he's unconscious now) I quickly climb up several shafts and drop down right behind Murica and decapitate him.

 _Just kidding,_ I didn't bring a sword!

I swiftly knock my forearm into the back of his head, which knocks him out cold.

Before I can inflict anymore damage, Pickle wraps his giant hand around my head, picks me up in an incredible hurtful manor, and swiftly swings me into a wall.

I groan in accompany with my metal implants as I no doubt break both my right wrist in two spots and my femur in my left leg. The shoulder shot starts bleeding profusely again. I immediately spring into action, and push off from the wall my indention now lies in.

Doing an uncoordinated roll, which hurts me more than actually slamming into the wall, I find my feet. It's times like these when I'm extremely grateful for the (non magnetic) metal implants in my bone structure as, they help me stand even when my fragile bone is fractured.

I can see Pickle stare at me warily, not used to someone getting back on their feet after being slammed into a wall by a giant. I don't blame him, anyone other than me would have been ludicrous imagination.

I get in a rough fighting stance with my hands up near my face. I'm not stupid enough to actually believe hand-to-hand combat would turn in my favor (I'm strong, just not as strong as _that thing)_ but I'm hoping that either trickery or a tip in power will come to my rescue.

I shoot all ten darts, and three of them catch, but while just a drop of poison would send a fully grown silt man half way to Hades, Pickle only hesitates from the flicker of pain before advancing again. He charges at me and I find it in me to duck under his swinging arms, before bringing up my non-broken leg and kicking as hard as I can.

He doesn't even stumble.

I flash back to fighting the Minotaur, as both seem similar, if only Pickle had horns. I dash to my left and grab Patriotic'a shield, and quickly bring it up as Pickle swings a giant fist. My arms groan in protest and my broken wrist threatens collapse at the unbelievable weight.

If ever Pickle gets tired of attacking innocent assassins, he'd be great at holding up the sky and letting dear ole' cousin Atlas roam free. He could probably do it with one pinky while siping tea and embroidering handkerchiefs with the rest of his fingers.

 _3 minutes and 27 seconds._

I bring up the shield, and jump onto Pickle's back, arms locked around his neck. I use the shield and repeatedly bang it into his head, in awe of both objects that refuse to give way. I jam my knuckles into the back of his head, the one's I lengthen like Wolverine with poison spikes, and make four, one inch deep punctures that begin spewing blood almost as acid as mine.

Pickle roars, and I loose my sense of hearing as he does. He brings his hands up to his head, as if swaying a fly, but I not-so-gracefully backflip/backfall down his back onto the ground.

I retract my spikes, (no need to accidentally impale myself) and start running down the corridor, positive that Pickle won't follow me. In fact, I'm most sure he's gunna have lasting brain damage.

Oops.

I start composing an apology to him,

 _Dear giant Pickle, I am extremely sorry for bashing in your skull with my darts, just know it hurt you_ a lot _more than it hurt me._

 _Sincerely, Percy Jackson_

I channel the pain of running on a broken leg, shot holder, and sliced skull into adrenaline, and cover twenty yards easily. Using my momentum I swing open the heavy metal door and dash out of it.

Just to practically run into the commander guy and the other four he had pulled aside. His black eyes glint coldly and his smile evil.

I have time to lift my hand an shoot three of the four soldiers, blazed onto their uniform four golden stars, and give the leader guy a terrifying glare, before I faultily miss a trip wire placed elegantly below me. I crash to the ground from my force, and kick the legs out of the remaining four starred soldier.

But it's too late, I can see the ominous hand descending, a needle with some a laboratory concoction of liquid chloroform.

And then my eyes roll into the back of my head, and in only seconds I'm unconscious.

 _4 minutes and 25 seconds._

* * *

 ** _Comment please!_**

 _ **Bye my Knights,**_  
 _ **Jay Knight.**_

 _ **(Any ideas for Percy's love interest?)**_


	6. To

**Part I: Aberration**

 **Chapter VI: To**

My eyes flutter open.

For a moment, I allow my self to panic, being in an unknown situation. But then I steel my nerves, I've been in much worse situation, and frankly preserving my life isn't currently on my top ten list.

I'm strapped to a bed (titanium cuffs) and reclined at about a 70 degree angle. I curl my fist, feeling the darts shift mechanically and know they haven't completely disabled me. I also feel my broken wrist grown in protest and know they also haven't attempted to heal me. I do give them brownie points when I notice both my head and shoulder are bandaged, but they've left my swollen broken leg alone.

I test the cuffs and I'm delighted to find that they're a higher technology that melds to the shape of whatever position your hand's in.

Twisting my hand I curl my left hand fingers over each other, and painfully work my ring finger under the cuff, which slowly gives way. I rapidly start spinning my finger around my arm underneath the cuff, before lightning fast jamming my arm farther into the cuff, so it reaches about a centimeter from my elbow.

With my now-practically-free left arm, I slide their four fingers under the right hand cuff, and pull.

It indents in the shape of my fingers, and I rapidly pull my right arm out of the cuff. I repeat the process with my left, and then undo my waist belt.

I remain siting on the bed, in the possibility it has a weight sensor on it. I look at the wall then, right at the picture of a polar bear eating a seal.

The irony does not escape me.

I scoot up on the bed to get closer to the picture and study it, surprised that my reflection shows well in the slick glass.

Then I think about double mirrors and know that's what I'm dealing with.

Typical. They'd want to study me like a bug under a microscope. They'd want to know how a nineteen year old managed to take out most of the Avengers.

I clear my voice, before wincing as I accidentally put pressure on my poisoned and broken leg as I draw back. "Hey." I say, "I know you're watching me."

When nothing happens I continue, "Hey, I know it was you, Fury, who gave me those directions to 'Shield's' lab. I should have known it was you, seeing as only someone actually in Shield would know where one of your labs are." I realize I'm babbling, but I don't know what else to do but to draw them out if I can't go to them.

"You wore a pretty convincing eyeball."

This time I hear a short, trying-to-smother-it-as-soon-as-possible laugh reverberate in the second room.

"See, I'm funny," I grin like a maniac. "So I'm guessing you don't know my name, but that's okay. Most people just refer to me as the Jinx."

No more reaction, I change tactics, "If you don't come out, and I know you have questions, I'm going to mentally start the bomb that your best technicians are trying to disable right now."

I grin in my eyes mind, they didn't realize it, but my unconscious state automatically triggers the bomb I carried in my pack. Without my mental urging, it explodes after twenty-four hours. I have no worries of them disabling it, their technicians aren't nearly as skilled as I am.

There is no reply, but that doesn't surprise me. With my two fingers I touch my right right temple, with a flick of thought I switch the bomb (currently with 13 hours left) to a ten second detonation time.

"You have ten seconds."

Like a mechanical light switch, a secret door opens with a sound of pistons moving. I sweep my eyes over the figure that comes in, Fury. The door immediately shuts behind him.

"Turn your timer off." He directs me, like a director. (Director Fury... Haha...)

I pause it, but make sure it's near if I need to activate it again.

He gets closer to me, and stares right in my eyes, and impressive feat. "What's you're name?"

"My most common pseudonym is Flynn Rider, maybe you've heard of me?" I arch an eyebrow and look serious. Then add, "But I also go by Jesse James, and occasionally the Easter Bunny."

Director Fury is not amused.

"You have ten seconds before I break your hand." He jerks down his hand into his pocket.

I look subconsciously at my hand, and wonder if it would even break with all the metal implants and braces in it. My wrist did, but it also has 30% less metal than my hand. I could go either way, surprise me.

I lift my hands in surrender (mock surrender) and open my mouth to begin talking.

In the .8003 (Yes, I timed it) seconds it takes me to open my mouth, Fury whips out his hand, takes a step closer to me shoves a pill down my throat gently... — not.

Before I can spit it out, one of his hands covers my mouth, and the other pinches my nose. Unfortunately for me, the pill dissolves seconds after being places in my mouth, and I have no choice but to expect it.

While my lungs start burning from the combined lack of oxygen and a dry powder sliding done my throat, my eyes start shifting though last few milliseconds of my memory.

I internally grimace as I realize a tell when Fury put his hand into his pocket.

I break away from his hold with a sudden flux of power, "Well," I start telling Fury, "No doubt that was," I run my tongue over my teeth, "A hint of sage, tansy, and rosemary, combined in a dissolvable pill wrapping that also includes the nectar of Asgardian Rose, which boiled in alcohol produces as truth telling serum."

Fury brick like face doesn't change, but the lines around his eyes grow ever so slightly tighter.

"What's your — " he starts, but I cut him off as quickly as I can.

"I would have added honey suckle, pressed Destonia seeds, and maybe thyme to the drug, though, to induce stimulation of the frontal cortex of the brain into submission."

This time Fury's whole eye twitches. "What's your name?" He suddenly says, faster than I can think of another witty response.

I hesitate, and hesitate, but the pressure on the base of my skull keeps growing and growing until finally, (when I realize that a cracked skull isn't worth giving my name) I give in.

"My name is Steward Brian." I say, wincing. Seaweed Brain? Get it? I'm just full of incredibly accurate puns today.

Fury whips out a small tablet an furiously types on it, "That's funny, out of the fifty-eight males in America named Steward Brian, none of them have you finger print, your eye color, or your relative age. In fact, almost all of them work a minimum wage job and are over the age of thirty-six."

"So, what's your name all nicknames aside."

 _Stall... Stall... Stall..._

That's all I can think right now, they can't know my name, none of them. Not when I've tried so hard to completely erase my humanity from any database or knowledge.

But the serum has it's hold on me, and my nausea increases. The overwhelming urge to just give in... _Obey my master..._

 _No, don't give in, don't. Will power!_ **(Green lantern, lol)** _This is what you trained for!_

I promised myself — never again would I let something or someone control me...

No no no no no no...

 _"My name..." I can faintly here myself saying, hesitating with raw anger in my voice, "My name is Percy Jackson..."_

* * *

 _Her cold eyes meet his, sharp, defiant, silently daring him to argue, protest - anything.  
_

 _"I did what I thought was right." She flats, unconvinced._

 _"You're a monster." He says, his eyes full of betrayal._

 _She snorts, "Like you would have done any different. They threatened to kill him!"_

 _"Then he should have died! Better a noble death than a betrayal of someone who trusted you!" His eyes flash dangerously, but unmistakable hurt is evident._

 _Then she brings up an unspeakable, "It it was her life, you would have betrayed me."_

 _This breaks him, and a snarling taunt flashes on his face, "I would have rather die then betray either of you! You are a coward, and I know she would choose her death over this sick imprisonment you've put myself in."_

 _Then he says words he's never said before, "I hate you."_

 _Even she stops and stands still for a moment, her eyes wide as a glaciers. He can evidently see her eyes start watering, but his resolve doesn't weaken._

 _"You're a monster," he spits, and is rewarded when she takes her celestial bronze knife and whips it across his back — twice._

 _Blood oozes like a waterfall, each patter on to the ground is an addition to the collection of his already spilled dried blood on the concrete. He holds back a scream though, determined to not show weakness._

 _She looks at him, repulsed, "The vote has been cast. You have been sentenced to death in three days time." She sweeps out of the room, leaving only broken misery and another emotion he can hardly understand._

 _In three days time, he's going to be killed by Zeus._

 _In three days time, he's going to try his hardest to kill him._

 _In three days time, his relief will be the most pleasant thing that's ever happened._

 _For death, is the only thing he wishes for._

 _Because the eyes of those who think he has betrayed them kills his souls more than death by an electrical current ever could._

 _A new Percy is in control now, and death is a long welcome friend._

 _A way to live — a way to die._


	7. Die

**Chapter 7: Die**

 **Part I: Abberation**

Death is peaceful.

I know, I've been there. Several times, actually. But each time something always happens, ambrosia saves me — just when I'm about to receive the end that all want to receive.

The eversleep. The final avenge. The peace.

Dying hurts.

I know, I've died. Several times to be exact. But each time, something saves me. A spell, cast by Apollo... I can never truly die because of all the half times I've already died. All the half lives lost add up. All the souls captured and vanquished stack together.

That probably doesn't make sense.

But that's okay, death doesn't make sense.

But a death is still a death.

And a kill is still a kill.  
_

 _"Last words?" The thunder god asked, he was not happy, or sad. He was usurped by the fact that the greatest hero of the age could have possibly decided to betray the entire Olympian Council. In fact, something seemed quite off about the whole situation — if only he had peeled and prodded at it, perhaps destruction would not have stood to obliterate them all._

 _"Yes," the prisoner said, dignity shining in his bright green eyes. "I hope you all die knowing that_ this _is how you treat your heroes that served you willingly! I hope that_ she, _" he nodded towards a masked female, "Gets sentenced to the Fields of Punishment like she deserves!" He spat on the ground._

 _"And most of all, Jason, I hope you enjoy your drink." He slipped in with a crooked gleam of ecstasy in his eyes as the son of Jupiter picked up his crystal wine glass._

 _"Jason, NO!" Screamed the masked figure as she ran towards him and knocked the invaluable glass to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces and red liquid spilled upon the floor._

 _Apollo was the first to speak, he flashed to the spilled liquid and lifted a sample of it to his nose, clear distress is written into the lines of his face, "Poison, father."_

 _"You dare strike at my son?" The thunder god said in a deadly quite voice._

 _"You will kill me. I will kill him," he said with a dry laugh, "Even in death I shall haunt him, forever! For the betrayal of me I will bring down your golden boy, the crown of_ her _eye. An eye of an eye, as they say."_

 _Then he looked at Zeus in the eyes,_ "And that, that little poison, that was just a warning."

 _Jason looked shocked, "W-what? What happened to you? Why would you kill me?"_

 _"What happened? — You ask_ me _! What happened to me... I changed! I saw all of you for the cowards you really are. I was stabbed in the back and now vengeance is the only terminal. Life is terminal," he cried, "Everything is worthless!"_

 _Then a small voice spoke up, one that both pacified an angered him, "Why did you betray us?"_

 _"I did not betray you," he said with a dry laugh, "I did not betray any of you. The traitor is in your midst, though, just like the prophecy said."_

 _The masked woman spoke up, "All father, he is lying, who else would be able to hold a grudge such as this? Only one as rebellious and callous as he could secretly be helping our enemies without getting caught for this long."_

 _"You are quite right." Zeus said, "Perseus Jackson, for treason against the Monarchy, you have been sentenced to death."_

 _The soother began crying; sobbing._

 _The masked lady grinned triumphantly._

 _Jason Grace looked down at his feet, Roman training hadn't prepared him for this — this murder of his friend._

 _"I am not an idiot," he hissed, "I know the evidence is against me, but I thought someone — my_ father — _would take my side! Anyone! After all I've done, all I've sacrificed..." A tear slipped from his eyes, before he hardened his heart._

 _"This is barbaric," Athena whispered to Artemis, "Olympians do not stoop to such level."_

 _Poseidon... couldn't... look... at his... son..._

 _"Take everyone out, Apollo, Ares, only gods of Olympus may witness this." Zeus decreed, thoughtful._

 _The masked lady's grin fell a she and all the others were ushered out._

 _Then it was just the gods, and Percy._

 _"I will never do anything for the gods of Olympus again." He vowed under his breath, a solemn oath that only Hestia heard with a frown — her hearth being torn apart. But Zeus would not listen to his elder sibling, she could not tell him the truth, bound in chains of indivisible words like the rest of the knowledgable._

 _He opened his mouth one last time, one last warning of the harbinger prophecy. His voice was like honey, layered with poison and venom that could strike a thousand warriors, "Pray Olympus," he intoned solemnly, "cry out your pleas, for next time there will not be a Percy Jackson to save your lives."_

 _Zeus stood up and raised his master lightning bolt, the same one_ he _had found and returned to the very same god._

 _He closed his eyes, then opened them again, determined to face his last moments awake and alive, fearing not and with cold calculation. He stared his death down._

 _And the bolt... was... lifted..._

 _Pain! A thousand kilowatts were streaming through his body, boiling his blood and burning his inside flesh with twist and turns of jagged, cold laced pain that brought only death... or life._

 _And then nothing._

 _No pain at all._

Death is peaceful...

 _He woke up a new person. He stood up, lightning flickering sporadically from his charred body. Where was he?_

 _Was this death? Hades? Sodom and Gomorra? ...Hell?_

 _He raised his arm and suddenly new light of crackling green energy streamed from his arm in frothing turrets of waves. And it burned, how it burned, even more so that the initial severing of his soul into the resting catacomb._

Dying hurts...

 _He looked at his arms in astonishment, wondering. He no longer felt_ it, _the sea seemed to no longer pull at his soul, the water didn't give him the energy of a thousand suns._

 _He looked around, his surroundings were barren. He stared at doors, elaborately carved that reminded him of a long forgotten dream..._

 _The Doors of Death?_

 _Perhaps._

 _He took a step forward, and out of nothing a fiery river materialized, current pulling in the opposite direction of the doors. He pondered it, the Phlegathon mocked him, showed him the direction of death — of giving up._

 _He took a step towards life, away from an eternal damnation by Hades. The step hurt to make, almost as if otherworldly forces pulled him to the death side. What was left for him in the mortal world?_

 _Revenge. Vengeance. Satisfaction?_

 _He took another step, another jolt of pain that brought him to his knees._

 _He looked around, there were charred, blackened bodies that lay next to the path..._

 _People who had failed. Been consumed by the pain._

 _People that had turned around when forward commitment was the only possible choice._

He turned to look at the direction of the fire, and in that split second knew if he took a step towards it he could never step forward again.

 _Another broken step forward. He had chosen his path. He threw up, but with nothing in his stomach all he could do was dry heave... Still the pain coursed._

 _Was this his challenge?_

 _Orpheus couldn't look back upon the site that chained his wife, and Heracles had to escape an impossible bench._

 _And each of Percy Jackson's steps turned him into a new person, each step shed an emotion, a unique characteristic that defined him. Each step was a new creation. Each step hurt his damaged heart, but each step healed him as well._

 _It was liberation._

 _Pain? Yes._

 _But freedom._

 _So yeah..._

 _He reached towards the doors, only inches away._

So close.

 _But so far._

 _One last step... Please? Mommy? Help?_

 _Each step receded, each step built upon layers and layers of tension. Each step new pain that twisted like a jagged knife._

 _His foot landed solidly, and the Percy Jackson who took the step had changed the second his sole collided with the dirt akin the River of Fire._

 _So who was he?_

 _He emerged a new creation. With a completely new mindset. The boy that cared way to much of what others thought,_  
 _no_  
 _longer_  
 _cared_  
 _at_  
 _all._


	8. Candle's don't last Forever

**Part II: Criminally Good**

 **Chapter VIII: Death is Release From Nothing**

He was locked inside a room. It wasn't a big room, but it was bigger thanhis old room as a child when his mother was there to comfort the little child Percy Jackson.

The window was big enough for him to squeeze out of, but it had iron bars over it. That wasn't something that could deter Percy Jackson, but after a moment of consciousness he realized that the mechanical whirl of his spinning blades was gone.

They had finally been able to disable him. He checked his internal timer, it had only taken... Three days, sixteen hours, thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds.

They appeared to be excellent mechanics.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed as stood up. He stretched like a cat, and yawned.

His mind flickered to breaking out.

Then he noticed a _strawberry_ smoothie siting on the bedside table. He grabbed it, tossed it from hand to hand as he made his decision, and then jumped back in bed. With sleepy, cunning eyes he decided to stay for a little while longer.

Strawberry was the best flavor, much better than blueberry, after all.

* * *

 _Cannon in D_ is playing when I open my eyes, proving to anyone who questions it that I have a wonderful taste of wedding music. Not that I've ever been to a wedding (My mom and Paul's was strictly non-demigod) and my own was canceled a week before it happened.

I throw on a orange and red plaid button up, khaki pants, and some bright red converse. I add a blue tie on for kicks and retribution, as well as actually comb through my hair. If you're wondering where I got these clothes from, I actually weaved then from the bedspread.

Not really — weaving's for Demeter's spawns. I got them from the closet, which to my delight, had nothing else in it.

I look at my profile in the body mirror they'd put in the room as if I was a female teenager.

I could say many things about my appearance; that I'm scared by the crazy gleam in my eyes, that every flash of my pupils gives off a aura of insanity... But I'm not bothered by it — any of it.

It's who I am.

I also happen to be incredibly hot.

A rapping on the door startles me, followed by the groan of a door that sounds like my (many greats) grandmother trying to do a backflip...

Gaia... Plz no!

 _...you'll hurt yourself..._

The man that steps in looks haggard, he has a fancy bow strapped to his back and a quiver full of arrows. His eyes carry a certain amount of serenity, of foreknowledge. The assessment of the man leads me to his fingers, which twitch as if paranoid.

"Hello!" I say in a chipper voice when the man gets over his surprise. He stares at me like one would stare at a panda, surprised that I could possibly look like a normal person.

"Hey," he nods.

"So what's your name, you weren't one of the guys I fought, so I didn't get to give you a name." I say, studying my fingernails, before looking up at him, completely serious.

He tenses, and then relaxes, he offers his hand, "Clint."

I shake his hand, running my fingertips over his heavy callouses. This is the master archer they were missing earlier!

I stare at him sideways, noting the dark rings around his eyes used for cutting the glare of the sun. "I'll call you hawkeyes..." I decide.

He stumbles as if shocked.

"So what brings you to my humble abode?" I say, and widen my eyes. If I really try, I can look like an innocent teenager again. Maybe the godly blood helps, I haven't aged well since fourteen. My eyes (hopefully) resemble those of a an innocent child, the green just accentuates my completely mild personality.

"I uh... I'm here to bring you to the conference room..." He says, as if he's lacking confidence.

Widening my eyes even more, I say, "O-okay," stuttering.

He then narrows his eyes and studies me with slits. Coming to both an inconveniently and a perfidious conclusion, as fast as a spark he snaps my arms back and ties them with a string. This time I widen my eyes out of amusement, a string, really? Does he think I'm an elephant?

I can feel the braided cotton fibers that make the string up. It feels like a typical four year old craft project.

So obviously it can't be a regular string.

Or maybe I actually am an elephant.

 _Mooooo_...

I flex my fingers, and then stumble forward as it both tightens and winds itself around around all my fingers and inches up my arm. It also thickens two centimeters.

I see Clint watching me in amusement. I roll my shoulders uncomfortably.

He takes my "shackled" arms and leads me forward. We go through many doors and twist and turns, but I still remember the path, just in case.

I roll my eyes, doofus, forgot to blindfold me.

"You realize that ninety-nine percent of people resist and fight being handcuffed, correct? And that I, being so nice, am resisting the urge to tear them off?" I look back at him while trying to skip down the hallway, "I believe in Shield's emergency procedures, it says I deserve a free cookie." I think for a second, "But I would take a strawberry smoothie instead, if that's easier."

He snorts, "Would you like fries with that order?"

"Only if their Chick-Fila," I wink at him, stumbling as the ropes tighten even more.

By the time we're at the "Room" (as marked above the doorway) the small ropes have thickened by another six inches and have begun to wrap around my neck. My breathing is labored and my heart rate has increased rapidly, I can now feel steel hidden beneath the string covering.

I stumble into the room. I stand as straight as I can and look down at my shoes, hopefully abashed. Through the corner of my eyes I see Ferrari, Patriotic, Widow, and another dude with a lab coat on and heavy bandages around his head. Where's Pickle?

"Percy Jackson." The familiar voice says.

I look up in a flash, all humility gone, "Hello Fury."

I lean back, staying on the balls of my feet. Fighting position.

"Do you know why you're here?" Fury casts a quizzical eyes on my, an shuffles some papers. The Avengers around him look at each other.

I take in a big breath of air, "By the position of your shoes, a decahedron, and the number of eyebrow hairs you have, I can come to many different conclusions. Possible you are wanting a person to bake you homemade muffins, or maybe you want me to help you make a wicker basket. Unfortunately for you, I have reason to believe that you're looking for Rust's assassin, in which you have made an extremely erroneous conclusion. This place was formerly filled by a man named Laquen Low who was a bully and an incredible killer born on February 16 1980 in Lukesville Vermont of the United States of America also known as the US or Murica or just America or the Land of the Free or the Police or the world of debt." I take a breath, "Debts are bad, they lead to more debt and the loosing of land and property and belongings but that's good for the people who run the bank because they need more money to support their family just like I need to support my family (cat) and buy food (cat food) for them so they can become —"

Fury slams his hands on the table.

I glare at him, "That was rude!"

Fury looks insistent, "Scan Laquen Low," he mutters to a subordinate, then he turns his eyes (correction: eye) on me and says, "Perseus Jackson, while your description of the USA is fairly accurate, your belief in Shield is not."

I glare at him harder, to which he smiles with pointy teeth.

"Shield helps people, For the greater good!" I say indignantly, "The greater good is where 51% of people get to boss around the other 49," I end with a snarl.

"You are entitled to your own belief," Fury condones, "but the monsters of the world; violence, malnutrition, terrorist, and isolation are what we fight against.

"Shield is a monster!" I yell, my pupils dilating with rage as I completely go insane. One word sticks in my mind — isolation. It's like a trigger, like a poison, suddenly I can barely think of anything else except the all encompassing isolation.

I shake my head savagely, "Rust is a monster, Vulg is a monster! You're all monsters! Who cares what side you're on, as far as I'm concerned you both kill!"

Then it strikes me right to the heart — "I kill..." I look up, meet their stares, "Nobody's good — nobody's good enough," I end with a dramatic whisper.

Then I laugh cryptically, "You'd think that Rust would treat their members better then their enemies — but of course not... Don't finish your mission you die, get captured and die. I have," I check my timer, "ten hours."

For all the people who have now begun to believe I'm having a mental anxiety attack, I'm not. Just to make things clear, I haven't told them anything of importance. They already know what gang I'm in — and that's it.

Accusation and hysteria are wonderful miracles to get out of a tricky situation.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

I look at a brick in the wall, stare at it, hoping that with all my essence that it will crack into a million pieces and I can escape from this desolate prison.

"Ten hours," Fury tosses the word around, "Well, I wouldn't want to deprive them of a traitor."

My eyes widen, "No! You can't! Fury —"

He flicks his wrist, "I want to know everything that he knows in seven hours. For incentive I'll sign off for any methods imaginable. Then throw him in a Caryier Truck and drive him out into the country. I want no witnesses, got it?"

A collective nod goes around.

Darn. And I was doing so well.


	9. Demigods are still Half Human

**Part II: Criminally Good**  
 **Chapter IX: The Penalty of Life is the Penalty of Life**

I stare at the rain through the fiberglass window, it pours like a premonition to the fate of the gods. Or maybe it's my fate, much more predictable now that death touches out to me like a corrupt claw. They have a knife and several metal instruments that are not the musical type. They look extremely pointy and _murderous._

Murica walks in first, his hand lightly touches my shoulders before the doctor in the lab coat takes a sample of my blood. My blood's not golden ichor like that of an immortal, instead it's the color of an electric shock. I think it scares both of them — they've never held the blood of the hallow.

My restraints are simply iron cuffs this time. They aren't moldable so I don't even attempt to break them.

"Please..." I croak from the lack of water, "This is America, where is your sense of righteousness? No cruel or unusual punishments..." I don't even try to lie to myself: I'm scared.

"That flew out the window the second you attacked all of us," Murica smarts. "That's why you're being tortured, not drugged," he adds.

Only idiots don't fear being _tortured_. I'm not afraid of dying or death, because I'm immune to it like a sickness — a mutt. They'll never kill me... They can't.

But maybe that's why I throw myself into danger and laugh it off. Because _I_ can't.

But I can be tortured.

And I'm afraid. Afraid that my dreams might come true, that my recollections will occur again. That old scars will suddenly begin to pour out blood one more.

I won't even fight my captors, but I won't tell them anything either. I'd rather die than help Shield or a gang. Even though I can't, the gesture's still there.

That might seem the antithesis of hallow-ness, but any imbalance in power could be catastrophic, especially if the Fate tells what should never be told. If suddenly they know that my price has already been paid in the blood of others.

I clench my fists uncomfortably, angry that I gave him something to hold over me — something to to bend me.

Then I square my shoulders, I am not afraid. I am not angry.

I just... am.

 _I am. I am. I am._

"Who is the founder of Vulg?"

But... I'm _not._

I remain silent, an focus on my breathing patterns. In, in, out, in, out, in... He waits for a few seconds before threatening me with his first item.

I slow my metabolism so when the doctor presses a silver cylinder into the inside of my left wrist I barely feel it. I probe my muscles and transmit the thought into them to try and quickly mend the severed tendons.

They barely respond, the pulse is weak but I pour all my reserves into building. Nucleus by nucleus, cell by cell, tissue by tissue.

I stare down at my arm, watching as blood bubbles like a fountain. Then I stare at the doctor, _What did I do to you?_

He almost seems pyretic and feverish, happy in a way. I scowl, how can you be happy intentionally mauling someone? In the heat of battle that's one thing, for information I'm not even privy to is another.

Then I look at his bandages, understand the three symmetric holes in his head and _know._ An eye for an eyes... As they say.

That doesn't make it any better.

I release the bunched up muscles in my non-pressed-with-a-cylinder-metal-sharp-object and let out a shaky breath. I stare up at Pickle, "I'm sorry," I whisper.

He doesn't meet my eyes.

This time it's Widow who asks, so quiet I didn't notice her come in. "Why did you join Rust?"

This I can answer. Not because I inherently feel like I have to; but because there's just this secret compulsion in my head. It urges me on like a horse.

I _want_ to. I realize with a shock.

I want them to know my experiences, my pain — but no! Also my triumphs and my battles won, my waging wars.

It's that feeling you don't want to feel, yet you do anyway. You can give in, or not. It feels shameful — underhand. I know that I fear not death, yet I do fear answering this question.

But I fear leaving it unspoken more.

I stare at Widow, right in the eyes, "My mother." I say, each syllable drops from my tongue like ice cold hate. My eyes shine with triumph and I almost feel pride coursing through me.

To an untrained eye, she looks as stoic as a statue, but to my eye I see a million thoughts run through her head. All with the blink of her eye. _His mother? What... What kind of mother... Did she force him or is_ she _in the gang?_

"Be more specific," she says, twirling a dirk in her hand.

"My mother married a man named Paul..." I start, immersed in my own memories.

 _I looked at my mother as she showed me a sneak peak of her wedding dress. It was creamy white with longs sleeves and a modest v-neck. Little lace embroidered sections hung down over the main part of the skirt and made the cuffs of the sleeves. She wore a startling sea green sash over her left shoulder and under her right._

 _My eyes traitorously began to burn, "Mom... You're stunning..."_

 _She looked sideways at me and smiled, "I know."_

 _"Should I wear the green tie that matches your sash, or the gold Paul has us wearing?" I asked her. "I personally like the green..." I turned around when she didn't answer me._

 _My mother had frozen, and she stared at me for a moment. "Percy...I-I don't know how to tell you this — let alone ask you."_

 _"What?" I snapped, feeling tension radiate off me in punctual waves._

 _She flinched, and then I flinched, "Paul wants me to ask you... not to come to the wedding..."_

 _My mouth pressed into a thin line like I was unhappy, but I wasn't — I was livid. "Why?" I ask dangerously, all ready knowing the answer._

 _Her upper lip quivered, "At the practice... There were monsters surrounding the place in seconds — you brought them there. You put lives in danger, Percy. I saw them, when you went to the bathroom there were dozens. So many you couldn't even fight off... Those people are my friends, Paul's friends, they cannot die!"_

 _I clenched me jaw, "Annabeth will be there, and Nico, Grover, Jason, and all the others. We can take on the puny monsters," I growl._

 _"Be realistic, Percy — this isn't a game anymore. You're seventeen almost eighteen. This is the point where so many demigods die for being reckless. Do you know any adult demigods besides Rome? No! They all died because suddenly the monsters didn't just want to kill them — suddenly the monsters_ had _to kill them."_

 _I narrow my eyes, I believe her, every word. But I don't believe she'd ever tell not to come to her wedding. I don't believe that her fidgeting fingers are nervous because of me, but something or someone else._

 _It starts to drizzle outside and I glare upwards at Zeus. He's either an idiot or has a bad sense of irony. It's probably the former, my uncle and I have been on bad terms since Athena swore me her mortal enemy._

 _I look back at my mother, "I do not believe in false confidence — or false modesty — when I say I can kill them, I know I can." I lean back and look at her, just now noticing the lines under her eyes. "Paul is not the boss of me, and you for the matter, when he tells you things... you don't have to do what he says," my voice cracks, "Please... Let me come... This means almost as much to me as it does to you..."_

 _Her eyes harden, "The monsters are changing... The Mist is evaporating in ways I don't understand — but it's there. Humans won't stop them, and Perseus Jackson cannot save everyone in the world."_

 _I look away, shamefaced, "You're choosing them over me."_

 _"It's not a choice, it's a law written in the fabric of time."_

 _"Who are you! Kronos!?" I roar._

 _"You cannot come to the wedding!"_

 _Something in her expression stops me, perhaps it's the fear maybe it's the anger. I search her eyes, "Fine, I won't go," I tell her._

"I didn't go to the wedding," I say, "And then Vulg blew up the building through cooperation with Rust."

"Vulg killed the last of my family, and Rust helped... But I can't take on a gang alone, I did some recon with other gangs, and then eventually joined Rust to destroy Vulg and Rust through the inside. So I could destroy everyone who took part in my mother's death."

I look at Widow, "And that includes Shield."


	10. Avenge Me, O Mighty

**Part II: Criminally Good**

 **Chapter X: Avenge Me, O Mighty**

Suddenly a jolting siren yanks my head up. I look around in confusion before realizing they knocked me out — again.

Jarvis comes on the intercom as the sirens lower, "Vulg is demanding possession of Percy Jackson. They say if you refuse, then you ally yourself with Rust and Shield will be entered in the gang wars. Sparta has similar requirements."

I widen my eyes in surprise and yell. "Fury!"

I don't have to wait long; he comes in with Hawkeye and Widow. Fury slams down my file; preliminary procedures, I suspect he already knows everything he can about my background.

Widow looks at me with an unreadable look; a flash of anger, a spark of pity, and a dose of understanding — human to human. "Here," she says, giving me a paper with the specific Gang demands.

Fury sits down across from me, "There way a stalemate on whether to give you to Vulg, Rust, or Sparta. So that choice has been given to me."

"I — "

"You have forty-two minutes left, Mr. Jackson. If we give you back to Rust on the account that they'll kill a traitor — on which we have no evidence — Vulg will consider us a part of your Gang Wars, which he will do anyways if we keep you here as prisoner."

He moves closer, more serious, "Listen here Mr. Jackson, we cannot afford to enter these so called "Gang Wars". Shield has soldiers dispatched in the major wars of America. We have Avengers and Special Operatives spying in Asgard and eradicating the last of the Skrull and other aliens."

 _"We cannot afford another battle on_ your _account."_ He looks loathing, "As much as I'd like to eradicate the three, that requires more manpower than we have to spare on mere pesky gangs."

I stare back at him and grin, " _For the greater good?_ Right? Don't play me the dunce, Fury, I know more about Shield's problems than you think."

"Listen!" He all but snarls, "I believe that you know what will happen either choice I make. And you're going to tell me everything," he narrows his eyes at me."

"And pray tell, why would I do that?" I say.

"Because, I know your weakness." He says, as if he's enjoying my discomfort — which I am; unnerved, I mean.

"And whatever the serum doesn't get, emotions will," He finishes eerily.

"I gave up personal ties long a — " I begin.

"Your mother. She betrayed you, and then you betrayed her."

* * *

Ehh, he's close enough, I decide.

I rub my eyes, "What do you want to know?" I ask.

"I can tell you anything from Botany to Andy Warhol, the Strong Force to the Jedi on Coruscant, Ethanol to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart," before I get too far in showing my explicit knowledge Fury opens a case with hypodermic needles.

He looks at Widow and raises an eyebrow, "Should I, or you?"

"I'll do it," she says and jams a needle into my arm.

I gasp as a bubbly liquid enters my veins, and my blood slowly trickled out. "I see you took my advice..." I grunt out, "I-I can barely keep a s-stream of t-thought and block it at the same t-time." And then I slide an easy smile over my face, "But, then again, it's not _that_ hard."

His eyes narrow slightly,"How are you affiliated with either Sparta or Vulg?"

I clear my throat, and then bite my tongue as the Truth Serum hits me like a tidal wave. Then again.

And again.

It's like a minuscule heartbeat, eat pump sends another wave of the destructive impulse through me to tell the stupid truth. I grind my teeth in before sighing when my brain forces my compliance.

"I worked with Sparta for a couple months, faked my death, and then anonymously disposed of their new assassin. I was Vulg's leader for about three months before a mercenary got away from me and I had to cut my losses." I let loose in one big breath.

Fury remains like a slab of granite, but then again so do I. "So you have ties to all three?"

I resist the urge to slap my head, "Duh."

Widow looks at me, "Will Sparta kill you should we give you to them?"

"Nah," I smile, "They'll just implement me into the assassin position — again."

"And Vulg?" She demands.

"Likewise," I say, still smiling, "I'm too valuable, Fury, with me on their team they'd easily crush the other gangs; then Shield would _have_ to do something."

"Modest, are you?" Widow mocks.

"Oh, did you say _honest?"_ I bicker back and cup a hand around my ear. "Contrary to your belief, I've been training and fighting all my life. Have those other men and women? No. I'm grounded in fighting, it surrounded me, it shaped me."

I look at the ground, and then look up as I feel an uncanny stare.

"Who were you fighting?" Clint says after being to silent so long.

I stare at him, surprised, open my mouth, and close it. "I don't know... My hatred and anger?"

I gasp, audibly and unintentionally, "...Myself..?"

 _Myself, the only person I can truly trust, yet I doubt? Am I a shell, filled with tangible anger that sparks necessity and determination while it last, only for it to evaporate in moments of weakness and self pity? Did my mother do this to me, or did_ I.

 _...Are these shackles on my wrist mental restraints that destroy my sense of humanity all because I'm weak?_

 _I am._

I shake my head and sigh, "What do you want to know?" I look up and meet there stares, "I'll tell you everything."

They know it, they know that they've gotten to me and now I pay the atonement.

"How are you so valuable, and why?" Fury asks.

I try to think of a way to explain — to _show_ them. Then I'm silent, thinking as I study each of them, "It would be like, you," I point to Widow, "joining a gang. Not many have your limitless physical abilities, and certainly not your mind~power. You would quickly over power your enemies." I quickly shut my mouth, aghast at the comparison I made.

Natasha allows surprise to flicker per her face, before voicing the next question, "What would you do, in our position?"

Her question surprises me, not only is it divulging information and going against regulations by association, I can tell she really means it. She wants to honestly know what I would do and is allowing me an opportunity to convince _them._

"Honestly? The only way I won't revert to my original self, not saying I won't anyway, is to keep me here, on ice per say. I cannot promise you that everything will be easy, but I can promise major compliance and self-sacrifice."

"If I go back to the gang wars, it's game over." I look at their faces, which aren't surprised because they knew the answer all along. Me agreeing was just the fulcrum point.

"Assume I say yes to your proposal, we can't keep you locked in Shield forever. It's not equipped with that kind of necessities — we aren't a prison, and we can't keep you in a bedroom meant for an Avenger or house you with the mortals or even the supernatural," Fury points out.

"Let me train with you — learn and grown like other young men my age. Let me help you as an ally, and you help me with mental stability. I won't be doing anything to hinder the progress of Shield, this is the only way to prevent me from becoming the one thing I hate the most — a monster." I feel it at the tip of my tongue, dangerous but relieving.

I've built up all this momentum for this instant, this thirty second period that could potentially change my life. Coupled with the serum, Fury knows I'm not lying, he knows I speak with all my heart.

"Fury, let me become an Avenger."


End file.
